


I Might Be Wrong

by Zigzagwanderer



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Curse Breaking, Developing Relationship, Evil Darlings, Idiots in Love, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Relationship, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/pseuds/Zigzagwanderer
Summary: From this prompt on Softkyluxkinks .  Sort of...''Kylo accidentally revives an ancient Sith curse that can only be broken by the kiss of a virgin. He sends out a shipwide request for all virgins to report to the Supreme Leader. Hux is the only on brave enough to show up. Bonus points if Kylo could have broken the curse himself since he meets the requirements as well. The what effect the curse has is up to the filler.''Oh, and this sort of follows on from my other fic 'You're My Man Of War', where Hux and Ren first get together, but you don't need to have read that one to read this one.(Title via Radiohead. Of course)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boysnextdoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boysnextdoor/gifts).



“It’s out of the bloody question.” 

When he chooses, Hux has a tone that cuts like a diatomic blade. 

Ren reaches down, breathlessly, to touch the angry line of Hux’s lips. Wet from Ren’s seed, and red from the relentless friction. 

Fearsome as Ren undoubtedly is, during _these_ moments, he can only shiver. 

“Morale is necessary for unit cohesion and the suppression of fear in combat,” he manages to say, shyly. 

Hux stares up into those impossible eyes. 

Ren has thrown many things at his General, including Mitaka, but never before one of Hux’s own jaunty catchphrases. 

It is unbelievably erotic.

His words, coming out of that mouth. 

“Well. Quite.”

The General gets to his feet, nonetheless. Dusts off his jodhpurs. 

His strategy meeting is regrettably imminent, on the starboard side of the ship. 

All well and good; Hux knows his duty to the Order.

“Floggings and half-rations would better put an end to these nonsensical rumours.” Hux snaps, severely, while gently tucking Ren’s tunic back in. 

He concentrates on tying off the belt, to make the most of that lovely waist. 

“In many respects, Kylo, we must treat the troopers as if they were our children.”

Hux pauses at the word, and Ren blushes. 

Between their duties as brutal galactic overlords and all the really, _really_ excellent fucking, there are approximately seven and a half conversations regarding their burgeoning _affiliation_ , that Hux has not yet had the chance to add to their agenda. 

“It isn’t even as if I was a suitable candidate.” Hux becomes deeply interested in the shelving system that surrounds them. 

The ship’s scuttlebutt states that a virgin is required to lift the so-called _curse_.

“I mean, you’ve been outstandingly thorough in terms of my deflowering, wouldn’t you say?”

If Hux sounds resentful, it is a fraction of how he feels. 

The damn fool in front of him, sending out alternating waves of surliness and longing and chronic insecurity, has become, unfortunately, Hux’s _entire universe_. 

“The ceremony is, you know, symbolic,” Ren repeats, to be helpful. 

He has already given Hux several official Sith pamphlets to look at.

The shiny, cheerful, brain-washing kind, that makes the cult’s cruel mythologies seem pretty fucking reasonable. 

Hux grunts, rifling through some spare parts. 

Ren wishes they were in a proper room somewhere. 

With one of those beds that fits two people.  


And with a few cool decorative touches; some static holos they’ve picked out together at an artisan fair, or whilst ransacking an overthrown citadel or something. 

Hux could display his collection of antique thumbscrews. Ren could have a new box for his sainted grandfather’s remains. 

Instead, Hux just sucked him off in a storage cupboard.

Again.

All of the sneaking around they’ve been doing makes Ren feel the way his mask does; safe and unseeable, yet panicky and claustrophobic. 

“And an act of tribute, Armitage. You know, like the way you insist everyone salutes you, even the cleaning droids.”

Hux pockets a spool or two of extra-long webbing. He has intel which tells him that Mitaka takes in a little sewing on the side. Ren has never once complained, but the seatbelt on his private transport is clearly a little snug for somebody with such a beautifully broad musculature. 

And if Ren ever gets marks of restraints on his skin, Hux wants very much for them to be by his hand alone. 

“Acknowledgement of absolute authority…” His mind wanders and he clears his throat. “Is, er, very different from pandering to hysteria…”

“You think I’m being hysterical?”

“…and Force hocus-pocus.”

“You’re comparing me to a cantina conjurer?”

Ren drops his hands from Hux’s hips. 

Then puts them back.

Then folds his arms. 

Hux does a frown. It isn’t one of his best. 

His reprimands and forbiddances are becoming a little syrupy, where Ren is concerned, so he adds a little more lemon.

“I simply draw the line at participating in some Dark Side pantomime.” 

Ren chews on his bottom lip.

“So,” he confirms, slowly, “the upshot is that you won’t kiss me in public, even if it prevents mutiny and desertion?” 

A sudden, sour memory surfaces through decades of suppression, and Ren looks at Hux and thinks about his hopelessly mismatched parents. 

About himself, their little mongrel. 

Their greatest mistake.

“Ok.” Ren swallows. His stomach hurts, even though he had a good breakfast, tucked up in Hux’s bunk, being fed mouthfuls of protein gruel. “That’s totally acceptable.”

He has never expected reverence from his co-commander; the fact that Hux is hyperrational and unafraid is not only completely fucking sexy as all hells, but _necessary_ , given Ren’s own internal chaos. 

Ren just thought that reconstructing a forbidden ritual, to break a sinister, potentially catastrophic malediction, could be something they could _share_. 

Together.

As a couple. 

Fuck knows they cuddle their way through enough private viewings of those propaganda holos that Hux finds so amusing. 

“I’m glad we understand one another, your lordship,” the asshole snips, snippily, and puts on his stupid fucking adorable hat.

“As I say, that’s fine.” Ren uses a small but impressive Force explosion to crumple the metal side of the compartment. “I’ll go find someone else.” 

There is an awkward moment while he waits for the smoke to clear, but then Ren leaves, dramatically, through the smouldering hole in the wall.

General Hux is left to wonder exactly what the term _’someone else’_ pertains to.

The static stops prickling in the air, all is quiet, yet Hux finds it suddenly hard to breathe.

A handful of startled crewmembers fall back as he emerges into the corridor.

“Another stock inspection failed,” he shouts at the nearest technician. “Must myself and my Lord Ren see to everything on this bloody vessel?”

Their ‘children’ try very hard not to catch their General’s eye, but all of them salute him very smartly.

For once, even _that_ doesn’t seem to make Hux feel better.


	2. Chapter 2

It is only a very small piece of Snoke’s throne that gets broken off.

A handful of cycles earlier. By Ren. 

Although Hux is the one to blame.

 

They fuck at the bad end of a dreary day. 

Hux is on the bridge, calmly dangerous, and possibly one disaster away from an aneurysm. 

There are fleetwide malfunctions. Colonial insurgencies. An alarming trend towards people outside of the First Order _not getting what’s coming to them._

Ren decides, in the end, to hunt Hux down. 

Not because he has been sitting alone in his room, by the comms panel, waiting for his General’s coded summons for sex. For, like, _a long time_.

That is definitely not the reason he shows up in the middle of the shitstorm.

And just _stares_.

Hux is nothing short of glorious in his absolute command. 

Ren feels it; the entire goddamn place is _thrumming_ with Hux’s energy. 

Hux reviews a few death warrants and a requisition from Mitaka for some dental work, then finally condescends to turn towards his co-commander.

Hux looks Ren straight in the eye.

The frustration and fatigue melt away to a hunger that is so obliterating, Hux has difficulty recalling which of the prisoners he wanted to release, and which he wanted to execute. 

He has difficulty recalling a time when he did not _need_ the great loitering nuisance in front of him, with a terrifying, bone-deep desperation. 

Hux scribbles vaguely and indiscriminately across the warrants, and hands them off.

“My Lord. Nice of you to join us.” 

He grips the edge of his console and Ren gets it, he really does; the urge to reach out and touch is almost overwhelming. Ren’s own hands ache with it. 

Hux has his uniform jacket off and the cuffs of his uniform shirt are folded up. 

Ren devours the strong, pale lines of Hux’s forearms. They are tensed, just asking to be gently stroked. 

Or hooked around Ren’s neck so that he can hold his General up and fuck him hard against the nearest wall.

“As you can see,” Hux scowls. “I am quite occupied at the moment. Do you have business here?”

It’s a shame that Hux has Rules About Force Telepathy, because Ren cannot for the life of him think of how to say the things he wants to say out loud, without Hux getting mad at him.

_I miss you._

_You look so tired, Armitage._

_Come to bed and I’ll hold you ‘til it all goes away._

“Uh, so, can I, uh, help with something?” Ren shrugs to show he’s just making a joke, that he knows he’s obviously no use to anyone, that he’s no better than a spoiled, badly muzzled lapdog.

“You?” Hux blinks. “Help?”

“Look, forget it.” Ren starts to back off. He can always go meditate. Masturbate. Both. “Bad idea.” 

“No. Stay. I am merely considering how best to deploy such a valuable asset.” 

Hux is surprised to find a complete absence of sarcasm in his tone. 

He squints. Scratches at the dawning red stubble on his chin. “You’re the second best navigator here on board. How would you like to help me sidestep this bloody annoying blockade?” 

Ren swallows. 

Does. 

Not.

Blush. 

“Sure,” he says. “That’d be ok.”

Then he glances around because fuck knows he’s never considered the destroyer as an actual workplace before. 

“Uh, Hux?” He wonders if they have a water cooler. “Where’s that big indicotherium skull I got you? You know, the one you like to keep your starcharts in?”

Hux licks his lips as Ren takes off his cloak. 

 

By the time the extended shift ends, the day-to-day tyranny is largely back on track.

Then Snoke demands an audience with Hux.

Ren calculates how many breaks Hux hasn’t taken, how many responsibilities Hux hasn’t turned from, and announces that he will also attend.

Ren prowls about the throne-room as Hux is forced to answer for not only the vagaries of war, but also why the sewerage system in Snoke’s main palace is always backing up.

“Supreme Leader. Have you lost weight?” Ren suddenly stops and looks up at the gigantic holo admiringly.

Snoke pauses in his tirade and drops Hux like a doll. 

“How splendid of you to notice, my boy. I have been cutting back on raw meats and invertebrates.” 

Hux’s boots hit the floor and he keels over, discreetly.

Master and apprentice discourse about death, and kyber crystals, and cake. 

Eventually, Ren bids Snoke farewell and severs the long-distance transmission.

He helps Hux to his feet. 

“Come here.” Ren sits on the outsized throne and pulls Hux to him.

“I am perfectly fine, you fool.”

Hux steadies himself between Ren’s legs.

“He hurt you.” Ren has to undo Hux’s collar to look at the marks. Hux grunts when Ren puts his thumb there. “Your lovely neck.” 

Hux maybe puts his arms around Ren. For balance.

Ren carries on with the unbuttoning. Hux is worn out, and doesn’t stop him.

He is weirdly uncoordinated, returning the favour, stripping Ren down.

It’s an enormous turn-on.

“Stars above, Kylo.” His murmurs are sleepy, soft, but his eyes are more feral for it, more feline. 

He runs a finger up the side of Ren’s cock. “You’re so wet for me. So big.” 

Ren didn’t think he could get any harder. But he finds he is wrong about so many things where Hux is concerned.

Hux hauls himself up into Ren’s lap, straddling him and mouthing lazily at Ren’s earlobe, his shoulder, his lower lip.

One hand drops carelessly between their bodies, to start teasing them both very, very slowly. 

It’s terrible. Too loose. Too graceless. It’s amazing. 

Ren knows Hux is military-fit, and flexible, but now he is ethereal, a creature from a dream.

Hux sighs, and sways his hips, he drifts up and down, clumsily rubbing them together, while Ren watches, mesmerised.

Hux is what Ren imagines his dying breath will be like, something intangible that he wants above all else to hold on to, but knows that he doesn’t deserve. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Ren can’t stop looking at him. Starlight skin sheened and rosy from the unrushed effort of working them towards each languid swell of pleasure. 

“No.” Hux shakes his head and sweat comes off him in sparkles and Ren wants to drink it all down. 

He tightens his grip and Ren groans in impatience.

“I am so rough, Kylo. A rough army boy, yearning for my prince.” Hux scours Ren’s throat with his bristles, biting maddeningly up his jaw, then twists his hands around both of their straining, slippery cocks to finish off fucking them. 

Ren cries out his General’s name, low and hoarse.

He realises that Hux is finally killing him.

And their faces are close as they climb to the final, tormenting crest. 

Ren has to hold onto the sides of the hideous chair. “Fuck,” he pants. “It’s too good. You’re too good.”

“No.” Hux purrs. “You are all that is perfect, Kylo.” Hux has grey half-moons of exhaustion beneath his lashes. Ren can see the lines of Hux’s life laid out in front of him, and most of it is writ in worry. “You are so perfectly dark. Perfectly singular. Perfect for me.”

The brutish, blood-red curtains glare.

“Come for me, Kylo,” Hux whispers, in the huge, echoing Hall. “Come all over us, my sweet, beloved burden.”

And Ren is amazed to discover that he can, with the right motivation, follow a direct order.

 

Kevin points out that Ren has gripped the armrest so hard that a chunk has snapped off.

The Praetorian guard are as much a part of Snoke’s furniture as the throne; ever-present and immovable and oddly proportioned. 

This one steps out of a shadow just as Ren slides off the seat and starts wiping himself down. 

“Hi, Ky. Didn’t want to interrupt, you know, while you were…in conference.”

There’s kind of a muffled snigger through the garish mouthpiece.

“Oh. Hi, Kevin. Yeah. Well. Thanks.”

Kevin glides forward so that he can tap the offending breakage officiously with his long pointy sword thing.

Ren cannot deny he’s caused damage; the jagged piece of old metal is right there in his still-trembling hand. 

“You know that means you unleashed the curse, right, Ky?” 

Ren can tell that Kevin is enjoying being the voice of doom.

“Uh?” Ren thinks he might still be high on Hux. Neither his brain or legs have much feeling. “There’s a curse?” 

“You betcha. You may be getting laid, buddy, but you also just got us all jinxed.” Kevin sounds smug. “You should know the details, being Sith and all.”

“I’m not Sith,” Ren says, automatically. “I’m unique.”

He wants to punch Kevin but there’s that hard shell of a mask to consider, so instead Ren calls over his shoulder to Hux. “General? We may have a problem.”

Hux doesn’t answer. 

Ren turns.

Hux is asleep, and drooling, wrapped up in Ren’s discarded tunic. 

“Uh. Kevin?” Ren tries to remember how to fake friendliness. “Is there a sacred text I could borrow that might…remind me how to fix this?”

The guard rustles about underneath his blood-red robes.

“Better than that Ky,” he says. “Here, take a pamphlet.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be a little epilogue added after this concluding chapter, thanks to a suggestion by Boysnextdoor.

in the end, the curse-breaking ceremony is well attended, unlike the previous event held in the auditorium, a lecture with accompanying holoslides, entitled, _‘The Poetry and Metaphysics of Conquest; a General’s Viewpoint_ ’.

To which only Ren showed up.

“I can’t believe you came through for me on this, Hux.” 

Ren has tied his hair back. It’s a dignified, statesmanlike image. More in keeping with what he thinks certain people might find appealing in their co-commander. 

“Yes. Well.”

Hux can’t decide if it is the ponytail itself, or the vulnerability that’s cracking through in Ren’s voice, that makes him seem so impossibly fresh-faced. Fragile, even. 

The great hulking radiant idiot. 

He has marched, reluctantly, onto the stage, to stand before Ren. 

He has not bothered to put on his finest ice-white dress uniform, because what kind of pathetically romantic message would that send?

But when no-one applauds his gracious appearance under the spotlight, he almost wishes that he bloody well had. 

At least Ren looks disappointed in Hux’s ordinary black, so that’s a minor victory.

“No. Really,” Ren whispers, “it’s very cool of you to help me out. Especially as we’re not…you know, seeing each other anymore. Dating, or whatever that was. Like, not really actually speaking to each other anymore. About anything.”

They both look awkwardly away.

Ren wants to cry. Even more than he already has. 

He itches and itches to get inside Hux’s chilly mind. Under his warm, scratchy, regulation blanket. 

“Quite.” Hux taps a bootheel. “Just so.” He notices he hasn’t polished his collar discs in who knows how many cycles. His nails are a disgrace.

In truth, he knows exactly how long the listlessness and boredom has been upon him. 

“Well, been a busy time… android uprisings…inter-fleet table-tennis tournament…” Hux is mumbling and he knows it, so he stops.

“Weird thing; everyone else that applied for the part of the sacrificial virgin in the ritual, got immediately reassigned to other starships. Like, galaxies away.” 

Hux coughs. Because of the swirling incense, no doubt.

“Peculiar indeed. Can we now proceed with this farce, your lordship?” 

Eerie music is piped out through the speaker system. Hux wonders why he did not just reassign himself to the ends of the universe, instead. It would have made his life infinitely less…

…good, he admits to himself, ungrammatically.

Being without Ren is infinitely, infuriatingly…less good.

“I still say we could just glue the throne back together,” he hisses, putting up a valiant last defence. 

“Morale is necessary for unit cohesion…” Ren starts to quote Hux again. 

“Yes, yes. Fine. Consider it a point well made. I have a medium-sized war I would like to firmly commit to, so let us give these credulous masses whatever superstitious claptrap they need to have, and then bully them back into being my elite fighting force again. Agreed?”

Since it got around that Ren had loosed a curse upon them, the crew have been spiralling towards a collective nervous breakdown. 

The infirmary is full of malingerers. Those troopers who do turn up for drills and inspections cower together like herds of frightened ungulates, leaving Hux no room to instil terror in them himself. 

The officer’s mess has been drunk dry; there is simply no rosé to be had. 

The nature of the curse itself remains nebulous, so the speculation that abounds hacks up great clots of Sith heinousness, and calamities to come. 

“Uh.” Ren suddenly kneels to examines some of the bones he‘s placed here and there on the dais, to set the mood. “Claptrap…that doesn’t mean anything…nice, does it?”

Hux stops fiddling with his cuffs and stares down at Ren. 

“I mean, obviously I don’t think these ancient beliefs should be treated with _respect_ …” Ren frowns. “It’s just that, when I was younger, it was…comforting to think that maybe there were Sith necromages, putting curses out there. People like me, into destroying the Light and stuff, only cool and happy. Maybe with a cool boyfriend to do all the destroying with.” 

Kevin makes frantic ‘please get a fucking move on’ gestures from a nearby shadow. He’s on break. 

“Sometimes uniqueness is kind of lame,” Ren speaks so quietly that Hux is getting cramp from stooping, but he feels compelled to capture every single word. “Kind of lonely, even.”

Hux opens his mouth and then closes it. 

Takes off his cap and throws it onto the nearest hat stand. 

Pretty bloody stylishly, actually.

Then he yanks Ren up, brushes him down, and tucks a wilful curl or two back behind Ren’s frankly absurdly lickable ears.

“For the sake of the Order,” Hux states, with all due solemnity. “I will try to follow your lead.”

And so, they muddle through the old, nasty recitations; Hux has performance anxiety for the first time in his life. Has trouble with the chanting. The bit where he has to promise to obey.

Then Ren indicates his cheek. 

“Now you kiss me and we’re done,” he prompts.

Hux looks at him.

Takes Ren’s face in his hands and turns it so their mouths can meet.

He leans up to brush Ren’s lips delicately with his own. Feels Ren shiver along all of his body, like he always does.

Hux repeats the action.

The auditorium is completely silent.

Hux runs his fingertips down Ren’s arms, then pulls him closer.

The hunger takes over. 

Ren makes that sound he does when he first feels Hux’s tongue against his own. 

Hux rapidly recovers from his performance anxiety. 

Especially when Ren grabs him by the hips. Starts to bite at him, in that soft way he has. 

Pushes his leg between Hux’s thighs. 

“Fuck.” Ren pants and Hux adores how Ren’s breath goes into him; his chest is tight with it, his head floats in some part of space where only the two of them exist.

The kiss goes on long enough for Mitaka to clear his throat, very loudly, from the front row.

Eventually, they part.

Ren is flushed. 

Hux is glad he’s wearing jodhpurs. 

He scowls out into the dark rows of seating. Nobody is clapping, and there is an odd tension in the air.

Some of his subordinates are gazing at him in a manner most unbecoming to their rank, and Hux thanks the stars above that he cannot read minds.

“There you have it,” he proclaims. “An unfortunate situation triumphantly resolved by your incomparable leaders.” 

Still nobody claps.

Ren starts shuffling off into the wings.

“Furthermore,” Hux continues, abruptly, “myself and my Lord Ren will be submitting the necessary forms to formalise a practical coalition of individual selves with regard to accommodations and recreational scheduling.”

Mitaka whoops. 

“Now,” Hux shouts. “Get back to work or I will have you all shot.”

The blood-red curtain falls.

Hux sighs. His one regret is that he will no longer merit the nickname _‘General Hex’_.

He turns. Ren is just standing there.

“Hux? Are we..?”

“Moving in together?” Hux nods briskly. “Yes, I think it would be strategically advantageous, don’t you?”

Ren starts up with the kissing again.

Mitaka whoops from the other side of the curtain.

Hux rolls his eyes, but the familiarity of his frustrations is calming, like putting on a pair of slippers made out of something furry and defenceless.

“Fuck. You were lovely, pretending to be all innocent like that.” Ren is standing too close for propriety but Hux allows it. “Like some fucking gorgeous goody-two-boots. Corrupting you in front of everyone was so fucking hot.”

Hux swats at Ren’s grabby hands.

But makes a few mental notes anyway.

“Get off, you lout.”

“Mmm. So honourable and virtuous, aren’t you, you pretty little thing? Bet you’ve never even beheaded anyone before, or blown up a planet or shit like that, now have you?”

“Ren. Bloody well cease and desist.” Hux wriggles in approved military fashion to escape Ren’s clutches. Which is actually what Ren wanted, so it’s all good. “At least hold off ravishing me until we get back _home_.”

Ren pauses at the word. They look at one another. 

“Ok. We'll do that.”

Ren steps back and tilts his head, a little wistfully. The pamphlets were curiously specific about costuming for virgins. “I only wish you would’ve worn white, Armitage.”

Hux grunts and pulls open his jacket a little. Beneath the rough cloth is a glimpse of something pale as a misty morning on Bespin. If clouds had tiny pearl buttons to teasingly undo one by one, anyhow.

The silk camisole clings wispily across Hux’s smooth, freckled skin.

“Kylo,” Hux lets Ren have a tantalising peek at one of the thin, lacy straps. “Who says I didn’t?”


End file.
